


Playing with Fyre

by Arinia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Bus Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 12:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19394368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinia/pseuds/Arinia
Summary: Desperation is a dangerous thing for a demon to have. Especially at the end of his life.And Crowley was very much at the end of his life.





	Playing with Fyre

**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens has sunk its claws into me and won't let go, so here we are. I know this scene has been written hundreds of times by now, but what's one more to add to the pile, right? My take on that infamous post-bus scene leading up to the body swap, with as much angst and pining as your heart desires. A somewhat more grim take on what Heaven and Hell are like so a head's up, but nothing graphic. This is a one-off for now, but if my muse demands, I might come back and flesh it out more, because I love the body-swap scenes so much, so do let me know if you'd like to see more.

Desperation is a dangerous thing for a demon to have. Especially at the end of his life.

And Crowley was very much at the end of his life. Every bounce and dip of the bus reverberated through his skin, reminding him he was on borrowed time. Superfluous lungs gulped in the stale air greedily, not least because he could taste Aziraphale’s scent in doing so. 

Said companion hadn’t spoken a word as they trundled along, and it was a testament to his exhaustion that he was slouching somewhat against the hard plastic seat, normally prim hands hanging loosely by his thighs. Crowley’s own fingers twitched, tempting him to throw caution to the wind one last time. 

It was now or never, after all. 

He had _lost_ Aziraphale. The fiery memory was seared into his mind. Even now, with his cologne lingering on his tongue, Crowley still couldn’t shake the chill that had settled deep in his core, that gaping emptiness when Aziraphale’s presence had suddenly vanished from his senses. And now, he’d have to go through it again. If Heaven and Hell had been unaware before of their fraternizing, they were quite enlightened about it now. He could almost hear Beelzebub’s slippery voice narrating the angel’s demise, taunting him that he was too late, _too weak_ , to save him this time. 

_As always._

The bus lurched around a corner, and those impossibly soft hands brushed up against his own. Their eyes met, and Crowley knew what would happen, what always happened. Every inch he had fought over to draw Aziraphale just that bit closer to him, only to be pushed away just as suddenly. Because Aziraphale hadn’t Fallen, he still had everything to lose, and could Crowley really blame him for being unwilling to throw it all away for him?

A beat passed. Microseconds for a human, but a lifetime for them. They had so rarely touched over the millennia, and Crowley could feel that other-worldly warmth radiating from Aziraphale’s skin. He waited for the inevitable, expression already schooled into disinterest.

Aziraphale looked away. But, his hand remained. Gently laid over Crowley’s own, like it was meant to be there all along. 

\- - - -

“I know you don’t sleep at all, but you can have the bedroom. Call it my one last, final good deed.” 

Crowley would sooner Fall all over again than ever admit how badly he had wished for this to happen. Aziraphale in his apartment, willingly. Beige suit bright against the grey-washed wall, expressive face drinking in all things Crowley. His eyebrows furrowed at Crowley’s offer, fingers still worrying the charred scrap of paper.

“I... that’s very... kind of you, Crowley, but it wouldn’t feel... quite right.” Eyes shifted away, lip bitten, and it was all Crowley could do not to scream, to stop himself from gathering Aziraphale in his arms and flying away.

“Suit yourself. Keep in mind the couch has a rather nasty habit of trying to swallow it’s occupants. Care for some wine?” he asked, cutting off whatever horrified remark Aziraphale was about to make. The fine Italian wine skirted over, uncorking itself right in front of Aziraphale. 

Before, that might have coaxed a smile from the angel. The bashful one, the Heaven-can’t-know-what-I’m-doing one. That was the smile Crowley craved, because it meant there would be no dry recitations of Heaven’s propaganda preventing Aziraphale from getting close.

There was no smile tonight. Only a stricken expression, similar, Crowley imagined, to the one he had been wearing when Aziraphale had found him in that bar. 

“There’s no time for wine! They could be here any minute,” and he looked skywards, as if half expecting Gabriel to rip the roof off right then and there. 

“Well then,” Crowley snarled, his own pent up grief seeping into his tone, “what do you suggest we do? If you had just come with me like I suggested-” 

“Running away won’t do us any good,” came the broken reply, and it twisted Crowley’s heart to see Aziraphale like this. His entire world crashing around him in quick succession, realizing that everything he had been fighting for was a lie. Crowley knew that feeling, still felt it all these centuries later. The skin where Aziraphale had laid his hand on still burned pleasantly, and Crowley longed to close the chasm between them, because the angel was right, they could be here any second. 

“Angel,” he tried again, softer this time. “Look, the whole stopping time thing? One time deal. I’ve got no more tricks up my sleeve.” He let out a sharp exhale, yanking his glasses off and letting them clatter onto the table. “So if you’ve got any ideas bouncing round, I’m all ears.” 

A strained silence descended, before Aziraphale took a tentative step forward. “This prophecy. I think it’s referring to us.”

“How do you know that?” 

“I just do. Call it a divine intuition.” 

Aziraphale had closed the gap completely, paper still clutched between his fingers. Crowley could see every smile line crinkled around his eyes. “Thwarting the War. I-I think you and I both know what kind of punishment that carries.”

The sound of Ligur’s screams echoed in Crowley’s ears. Oh yes, he knew all to well what awaited him downstairs. Torture, he could live with. Had endured, in fact, too many times to count. His lies had caught up with him on more than one occasion throughout the years, and it was always a perverse sort of honour among his fellow Damned to dish out punishments to the infamous Earth-Dweller. 

But, this would be elimination. There was no afterlife for them. Could God have come up with a worse fate than Hell itself? 

Ligur’s screams were replaced by the sound of rushing fire and thick, black smoke. Aziraphale would burn, really burn this time. They’d pin him down and make him watch. Make the last scene he witnessed before he was extinguished be Aziraphale; good, pure, Aziraphale, scream in agony. 

It was too much. Far too much for his earthly vessel to contain. He wrenched himself away from Aziraphale’s intoxicating presence, pacing round and round his suddenly too small apartment. 

There was longing in Aziraphale’s eyes, undisguised for once, open and inviting. It only increased Crowley’s restlessness further.

“Playing with fire. Hellfire.” He spit the words like bullets.

“I know,” Aziraphale said. Quiet. Resigned. 

“Then let’s _go!_ I know the stars, I know every single place we could hide! Do you really think the likes of Gabriel and Hastur will spend eternity hunting us down in this great, big, fucking universe?!” But, even as he said it, Crowley knew. They were relentless when slighted. They’d spend the rest of their existence running from planet to planet, constantly looking over their shoulder. Could he really damn Aziraphale to a life like that?

Aziraphale would never leave. He was too loyal to humanity. Too fond of his earthly life. And that fact was nearly enough to push Crowley right over the precipice.

“They’ll make me watch, you know,” he tried one last time, voice low, appealing to the hunger he saw in Aziraphale’s face. A watery smile broke out.

“Heh. Funny that. I was just thinking the same thing.” 

In the thousands of years of knowing each other, Crowley had never once seen Aziraphale cry. Close to tears, but he had always shoved down whatever heartbreak he had, assuaging himself that this misery was temporary, all in service of the Ineffable Plan. 

Nearly every other possible human experience he had seen from Aziraphale _(except the ones they both kept hidden away from each other)_. And yet...

A single tear had escaped, tracking down Aziraphale’s cheek. Another followed, splashing onto the blackened edges of Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy. 

He couldn’t deny himself any longer. Not at the end of his life. Long fingers reached out, scraping the sacred tears onto his fingertips. They should have burned, but all Crowley felt was a rush of power. Aziraphale didn’t move away, gaze steady despite the trickle of tears. 

“I’m not playing this game any longer,” he whispered. Aziraphale was breathing heavily. He could feel it fan across his face, tempting him more. “Not when this is my last chance.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, one last note of protest dying in his voice. “The prophecy-”

“Don’t make me beg,” he hissed. “Not again.” Aziraphale closed his mouth, sharp eyes following his every movement, just as they had when Crowley had pressed him against the wall, so close together he had felt every rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest. “Don’t let me die not knowing.” 

Aziraphale was shaking, Crowley realized, as his sharp cheek was cupped. “You do know,” Aziraphale murmured back. “You’ve known far longer than I have.” 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was reminded that they were wasting precious escape time. But, it was drowned out by the pounding in Crowley’s ears, how close Aziraphale was. There was no time more precious than this.

“So why did you keep me away?” Crowley knew why, but he allowed himself this moment of selfishness. Aziraphale cast his eyes downward, but Crowley’s hand captured his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. 

“Blind faith. Blind loyalty.” Every word was laced with pain.

“And now?” He tightened his grip on his chin, limbs quaking with the magnitude of what was happening. Aziraphale’s gaze hardened, delicate fingers sweeping down Crowley’s cheek until he was cupping the back of his neck. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat.

“My allegiance has shifted. Permanently.” 

Time slowed and Crowley wasn’t sure if he was doing it consciously or not. They moved in harmony, breath mingling in the diminishing space between them until their lips connected. Aziraphale let out a soft _“Oh!”_ a sound sweeter than a thousand celestial harmonies. And Crowley was pulling him closer, arm wrapped around the jacket still bearing the sigil of his miracle. 

He had imagined this more times than he could remember. The ultimate expression of humanity. Torturing himself with the forbidden fruit, hanging just out of his reach. How fittingly cruel that as the final bell tolled, he was at long last getting what his heart desired. Aziraphale’s lips were pliant and demanding; and Crowley felt the bittersweet vindication that he had been right all along. 

He did not know how long they kissed. Desperate and needy, containing a thousand apologies and aching desires. Tears slipped between their lips, and Crowley kissed them away, fierce, because no amount of holy water could ever take this from him. Small wonder humans cherished this act so much; Crowley could feel the tendrils of Aziraphale’s very essence.

When at last they pulled away, Aziraphale touched their foreheads together, hands still cradling his face. He had been half expecting to see the familiar look of regret, but no. No, there was a rare ferociousness blazing in those blue eyes, and Crowley felt himself being claimed. He shut his eyes, allowing it, because he had never not belonged to Aziraphale. 

“Stay with me.” It was a needless request. Aziraphale was staying. He could see it written like stars in the sky. Still, the angel nodded, eyes raking over his face. 

The prophecy had reappeared in Aziraphale’s hand. He could feel the burnt paper pressed against his cheek. Crowley gently pried it out of his hands, ignoring the sound of protest. “We’ve got maybe a couple hours at most, Aziraphale. The only face I’m concerned with right now is yours.”

The anguished look of longing Aziraphale had suddenly shifted. Eyes darted to the paper and back to Crowley, a sudden, blinding burst of inspiration lighting his face. He grabbed it back, eyes flicking over it several times, a dazzling, half-crazed smile overtaking his features. 

“You’ve got something,” Crowley hardly dared to believe it. There was no way, no way at all a Damned creature like him was going to cheat death twice. God had never been so benevolent, would never allow him to kiss Aziraphale without sacrificing something greater.

“Do you trust me?” Aziraphale asked, breathless. A needless question. One they both knew the answer to. Still, Crowley nodded, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own and marking it with a kiss. 

“Until the bitter end, angel.” 

Hope was a dangerous thing for a demon to have. Especially at the end of his life. And Crowley was very much at the end of his life. Yet, as he lay in bed that night, Aziraphale’s lips claiming him as his own between hushed Hail Mary plans, he had hope nonetheless. 

A dangerous thing to have. But, that had never stopped him before.


End file.
